He felt someone touch him from behind. He heard the panting breath of a runner—he felt his jacket scraped by eager fingers, but he kept on.
Then, when he had no more breath left; when it was all black before his eyes, he crossed the last line—fairly staggered over it and fell with the ball in the final touchdown—the score that won the game—for the whistle blew as his men and their enemies were running up.
Dick had won the championship.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE TROLLEY STOCK—CONCLUSION
The grandstands were trembling and swaying under the foot-stamping, yelling crowd that enthusiastically cheered the victorious Kentfield cadets. Dick felt as if it was all a dream until he found himself half lifted to his feet and felt his comrades clapping him on the back, yelling congratulations in his ears, while a dozen or more were trying to shake his hand at once, for the gridiron had been overwhelmed by a riotous throng of substitutes and spectators as soon as the final whistle blew.
"Oh, Dick! Dick!" cried Paul, limping up to his chum.
"We—we did 'em!" gasped the captain.
"We did 'em?" questioned Dutton, also among the cripples. "You did 'em you mean, Dick Hamilton. It's your team from start to finish!"